How to Survive Your First Year at Hogwarts
by Lasgalendil
Summary: Some days even Hufflepuff House can seem too much for a misfit Muggleborn. Brisby Bates has never been brave, she isn't particularly clever or cunning, she isn't pretty and can barely ride a broom. Is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry just too daunting, or can two well-meaning Weasley brothers and their wacky hijinks convince poor Brisby to stay?


How to Survive Your First Year at Hogwarts:

A (No-Wise Devious or Particularly Dangerous) Treatise by Mssr.'s Weasley and Weasley

disclaimer: Wingardium J.K. Rowling

* * *

Brisby Bates—as she would later come to know—was Muggle-born.

Granted, when she left the hospital that day with her proud mother and father (six pounds, nine ounces, twenty inches long!) it would be a long, long time before she was ready for school, let alone the magical boarding kind.

Brisby was an average girl. First born, only child, parents with blue-collar jobs in a hard-working village. She'd sat up, talked, walked when she was supposed to, no sooner, no later, hitting each developmental milestone in a measured, un-momentous fashion. There was nothing exceptionally special about Brisby, but she was still her mother's pride and joy and her father's darling girl. At the age of six she'd gone off to school with the other girls, had her hair pulled, heart broken, and healed up stronger just like the rest of them.

She wasn't particularly pretty, athletic, or clever, but she was obedient, well-mannered, and worked hard. Which, as far as Mr. and Mrs. Bates were concerned, were the only traits that mattered. Their daughter didn't bring home trophies or academic awards, but her grades were passing, her few friends were kind, and her words soft-spoken and sincere. For a humble, working-class family who enjoyed nothing better than fish, chips, good company and telly, Brisby Bates was the ideal daughter.

The Bates' had no doubt their little Brisby would finish school. Possibly some junior college, if her work ethic kept up, but never university. Brisby didn't have the grades, and the Bates' had neither the money nor expectations. But their little girl would do fine working in a shop somewhere, perhaps as a secretary, she'd marry local and marry young, raise her children in one of the humble houses next door. Her life wouldn't be big, but it would be quiet and content, they thought, and there most certainly couldn't be anything wrong with that.

Then one morning—The Morning—as it would be forever remembered, their perfect, scripted vision for Brisby's bright future was instantly and ungraciously changed.

It all started with a squirrel.

Margie was the neighbor's dog. A beautiful English golden retriever with cream colored hair and a constant, lolling grin, she was the neighborhood's darling and menace to flower beds and bins everywhere. Margie was a dog, and as a dog had no respect for roses, rhododendrons, daisies or daffodils, and often scattered trash. Her owner, elderly Eliza Bennett (twice widowed, increasingly senile, noticeably arthritic) hadn't the money for a proper fence or the heart to keep her chained. But Margie rarely barked, and old Mrs. Bennett made so many pies and was a well enough known sight tottering out to check the mail each morning that the majority of the neighborhood—the Bates' included—were content enough to let it be.

Mr. Bates, in fact, had a soft spot where the dog was concerned, and had promised (himself—poor old Eliza's faulty memory had long ago forgotten) to look after the golden himself once her owner was gone. But on that morning—The Morning—he'd been in a bit of a rush, Brisby wasn't a baby anymore, had been seen sitting at the breakfast table only moments before, and he'd backed blindly out of the driveway and onto the empty street.

Only seconds before, a scampering squirrel had decided to cross.

Margie had spotted the squirrel. Poor Margie was only a dog. She knew no better.

It'd been over in seconds. A terrible yelp, a thud, a squelch. So startled he'd spilt his morning tea, seen the blonde and bloodied body strewn in the street—

The neighbors had all appeared, except Eliza (thank goodness for that, the poor old woman, she wouldn't have lived through the sight), and by the time he'd placed the car in park even little Brisby had come running.

"NO!" she'd cried.

—she was only eleven, she didn't need to see this—

Then—

Then the dog was fine. Dead or dying one second with squished entrails and broken bones and the next standing in the street, pretty as you please. Margie yipped once, and continued the chase, barking at the base of the tree where a squirrel could be seen, chattering angrily.

But, Mr. Bates' mind said. But—

But there'd been other instances, too. All those small things that just didn't make sense. The snacks missing from cupboards as a toddler, that green jumper his mother had made for her fifth birthday that she'd sworn to seven hells had been pink, the uncanny luck little B had had one day at the track with his father betting on ponies, his "lucky charm", dad had said…

Coincidences. Seemingly strange coincidences, nothing more.

He'd tried telling the self-proclaimed witch exactly that when she'd pressed him about Brisby's 'abilities'. It was no laughing matter. His daughter wasn't a witch. There was no such thing as magic—there just _couldn't be!_—so his eyes must've been tired, tricked, the dog had been fine, she had always been fine. It was impossible. She'd been fine all along. She'd—

The witch had turned into a cat.

But—

Thought Mr. Bates.

But—

Thought Mrs. Bates.

Brisby burst into tears.

The cat turned back into a witch. "It's only magic, Miss Bates," she'd said, voice austere but not unkind. "And nothing to fear. At Hogwarts you will soon grow accustomed to it." Hogwarts, as it turned out, was a school of Witchcraft and Wizardy, the largest, oldest, and most respected in the country, the handsome old witch proceeded to inform them proudly. There their daughter could learn magic in a safe, time-tested environment, there she could have friends who were like herself—

"Do I have to?" Brisby begged. "Do I have to go, t-to Hogwarts?"

"So it would appear," the witch said.

"Do all w-witches have to go to Hogwarts?"

No, the professor had finally informed them. Witches from wizarding families could be educated at home, or at other institutions if their parents so chose.

They hadn't heard of Hogwarts, that was certain. How safe could a magical school—_a magical school!_—really be? Did children get hurt? Who looked after them? How far was it?

"Children at Hogwarts are properly cared for. They are protected, as much as possible, from any foreseeable harm," the Scottish witch continued. But she still wouldn't tell them where it was.

Could they visit?

Her answer was cryptic. Her lips had been pressed.

What would happen if they refused?

"Brisby Bates is a witch now," the old woman informed them curtly. "She has been registered as a witch since the day of her birth, and invitation to attend Hogwarts was extended to her on that day." And, she warned them, the accidental magic they'd experienced today would only grow worse.

"But she's our daughter," Mrs. Bates had insisted. "Our daughter."

Brisby clung to her mother as the witch farewelled them, with the promise to return. More information to follow. But Mr. Bates had a sinking suspicion as she "Disvaporated" or some other such magical nonsense from the parlor that she would be back.

…With reinforcements.

"Brisby Bates is a witch now," he mulled the words. "She has been registered as a witch since the day of her birth."

That woman, that Professor McGonagal, she'd be back. And she had magic and the might of a ministry behind her.


End file.
